 | VII Steadfast Falters |  |
7. VII
Like a wounded thing stricken unto death, Betty sat alone, hardly aware that her aunt had gone. Her great eyes, distended and dark with pain, gazed out into the fading twilight. She was forcing her mind back over the events which just preceded her father's death.
Scene after scene presented itself vividly to her, like little pieces of mosaic which fitted accurately into one another; and at last a completed picture was disclosed which solved problems hitherto inexplicable. The sudden falling away of people whom she had thought her friends, and whose unsympathetic bearing at the time of her sorrow had puzzled and hurt her beyond words; the coolness of others with whom she had unavoidably been brought into contact — the revelations of the afternoon explained it all.
The twilight deepened into night, and still she sat motionless, staring out into the dark, her brain groping through the maze of memories for the image of her father. Her brow contracted as she struggled to visualize the presence that always seemed to linger near her. When at last she succeeded, and the cold, keen-eyed, rather cynical face was outlined against the dark clouds of doubt that her uncle and aunt had raised, her lips trembled into a happy smile of restored confidence.
She rose stiffly and switched on the light. Going to the writing-table, on which stood the large picture of her father, she took it up and looked tenderly into the stern face. Unflinchingly the keen eyes returned her gaze until the questioning expression in her eyes turned into one of perfect trust, and the taut lines of her face relaxed.
"No matter what they say," she whispered softly, "I shall always believe you were as true as steel!"
At her words the eyes seemed to soften into the look of tenderness they had always held for her.
Her eyes wandered from the photograph to the dainty things about her — the flowered chintses, the tasteful furnishings, the pretty French prints, their wires concealed by shirred ribbons surmounted by a bow; the glass-topped dressing-table with its array of silver-backed toilet articles; the inviting bed where she had passed so many restful nights. The conviction came over her that she could no longer remain a member of that household.
But where to go? She knew her world too well not to understand that the homes where the daughter of the prosperous Randolph Crosby was so eagerly welcomed would be closed to the child of the discredited outcast. But though no alternative suggested itself to her, the fact remained glaringly apparent that it was impossible for her to stay at Windy Bluff.
A knock sounded at the door, and Marie, the French maid, asked if she could be of any assistance to mademoiselle. Betty replied that as she had a headache she did not want any dinner and would not need her again that night. Then she locked the door quietly, drew out a suit-case from the depths of the closet, placed the photograph of her father carefully in it, and began hurriedly packing it with things from the closet and drawers. Every now and then she glanced at the little gilt clock on the mantel, feverishly ticking the minutes away.
She took off the white muslin she had worn all day, and put on a black suit and a hat, over which she tied a heavy veil. Then, with a final lingering look about the room,
After listening intently for a moment, she stole along the corridor and down the stairs to the large hall below. Subdued voices came from the dining-room, but the drawing-rooms were deserted, and Betty made her way unnoticed to the front door. Opening it softly, she crept out into the friendly darkness. Fearful lest the gravel of the drive should betray her flying footsteps, she sped across the lawn toward the entrance gates, and with a deep sigh of relief passed between them into the highway beyond.
The moisture-laden wind was blowing in fitful gusts that gave promise of rain in the near future, and Betty quickened her pace once more. She kept her eyes anxiously alert for a conveyance that would take her to her destination, for the suit-case increased in weight with every step and seriously impeded her progress; but at that hour all the public hacks were in demand to take diners-out to the homes of their respective hosts, and Betty did not dare to ask a lift in any of the returning private motors, for fear that the chauffeurs might recognize her.
Notwithstanding the fact that she was thankful for the protection the darkness gave her, she started violently at every unusual sound. Once or twice she had to stop, rest her suit-case on the ground, and lean for support against a railing or tree until she recovered her breath sufficiently to be able to go on.
It was with an involuntary "Thank Heaven!" that she at last spied the bright lights of the wharf, which revealed the shadowy hulk of the boat alongside. A continuous ebbing and flowing stream of dark figures passed up and down the gangway, and Betty, realizing that not many minutes remained before the hour for starting, hastily made her way to the ticket-office and procured her passage for New York.
As she passed down the corridor — through which white-coated stewards were hurrying, calling vociferously, "All ashore! All ashore!" — she came face to face with Mrs. Maitland Andrews. Mrs. Andrews stared at her doubtfully for a moment, trying to penetrate the heavy veil. Then, as Betty tried to edge past to her stateroom, she exclaimed, laying her hand on the girl's shoulder:
"Aren't you — why, yes, you are Betty Crosby!"
Realizing that it was impossible to escape recognition, and anxious to explain to Mrs. Andrews her inability to make good her promise in regard to a donation for the ambulance, Betty drew the older woman into her stateroom.
"Would you mind coming in for a minute?" she pleaded. "I want to tell you — "
Perceiving from the tremulous tones of the faltering voice that something was amiss, Mrs. Andrews readily accompanied the girl.
"Why, of course, dear," she responded heartily. "We'll have a nice talk — not a soul to interrupt us!"
Betty untied her veil and took it off before she spoke again.
Mrs. Andrews's role of confidante to every sort and condition of man occupied almost all the time that she did not spend at the board-meetings of the many societies she practically ran and supported. Bishops and newsboys, great financiers and debutant girls, poured their difficulties into her sympathetic ears, and went away strengthened by her sound counsel. Betty had always been an especial favorite with her, and with open arms she had welcomed the girl into the Red Cross work, knowing that it was the most effectual means of alleviating her sorrow.
It was with deep concern that she noted the ghastliness of the young face and the tightly compressed lips. She settled herself comfortably on the lounge and, in order to give Betty time to compose herself — for she saw that the girl had difficulty in beginning — remarked beamingly:
"I'm going to New York to order the ambulance. Isn't it splendid? All the money has been promised, and I want to get it off at once."
A tremor passed over Betty's face.
"That's what I want to tell you," she began impulsively, laying her hand on Mrs. Andrews's arm. "I can't — it's impossible for me to give you the money I promised this morning."
Mrs. Andrews placed her hand gently over the girl's.
"That's all right, dear; it won't matter in the least. It 'll come in from somewhere — it always does. Please don't fret about it!"
Two great tears overflowed Betty's eyes and rolled down her cheeks.
"I was afraid you wouldn't understand," she whispered tremulously. "I was afraid you might think I wanted to pose as being very generous before all those women this morning and then back out in private; but I thought I had the money, and — and it isn't there!"
She caught her lower lip in her teeth in an attempt to still its trembling. Mrs. Andrews took the girl's hand between hers and began stroking it gently.
"Tell me all about it, dear; perhaps I can help you."
But Betty shook her head hopelessly.
"No one can help, as far as the money goes. It's all gone — every penny of it. Apparently father made investments that didn't turn out well, and instead of being a rich man he was quite the reverse. I'm on my way to New York now to look for something to do."
"Have you left your uncle's for good?"
Betty nodded.
"I couldn't possibly stay — there were conditions that made it quite out of the question. Not that Uncle George wasn't perfectly sweet, and told me that they allways expected me to make my home with them, but — "
"I understand," answered Mrs. Andrews gravely. "You don't want to be under obligations to them. Sometimes it's like that, and the obligations keep mounting up and mounting up until it seems as if they would crush you, no matter what you do in return. It's much pleasanter to stand on your own feet, even though it means hard work. What sort of place are you thinking of taking?"
Betty turned a wan little face, over which flickered a watery smile, to the older woman.
"Beggars can't be choosers," she said bravely. "I'm ready to take anything."
"Have you had any training?" asked Mrs. Andrews. "Stenography, typewriting, or any of those things? So many of the girls have been taking them up lately as a sort of fad."
Betty shook her head dispiritedly.
"Father wouldn't let me take up anything like that. He said that I would never have to use it, and that it was a waste of time and energy. The only thing he let me do was a course in Red Cross first aid and home nursing, which was a thing he said every woman should know; but, of course, that's just the thing that won't be of any use to me now, with so many trained nurses about!"
A look of deep dejection settled over her, and for a moment they sat silent, listening to the ceaseless pulse of the engines as the boat forged its way into the dark.
Mrs. Andrews rose and, placing her hands on Elizabeth's shoulders as she stood beside her, said gently:
"I'm very glad I ran across you. I want you to go to bed now, and to sleep, mind you — no lying awake thinking and worrying! To-morrow things will look brighter — they always do. Promise me!"
Elizabeth's face darkened as if a dense cloud, the forerunner of a storm, had passed over it.
"Ah," she said passionately, "you tell me not to worry, but how can I help it when people are saying such dreadful things about my father?"
"Are they?" asked Mrs. Andrews thoughtfully. "I haven't heard anything, but then I don't often hear slander. People know it isn't exactly in my line." The even tones were a trifle contemptuous. "Or perhaps," she added whimsically, "they knew it wouldn't be any use. You see, child, I happened to know your father!"
She stooped and kissed the girl impulsively. Betty clung to her a moment, unable to speak; then her arms dropped, and she smiled bravely into the other's face.
"Good night," she whispered tremulously, "and thank you again and again!"
"Now remember, no worrying!"
Mrs. Andrews shook her finger playfully as she disappeared through the door. And, strange to relate, Betty, worn out and exhausted, followed her advice and slept peacefully throughout the night, a pitiful little smile hovering over her lips.
| VII Steadfast Falters | |